And Then I Saw You
by AcrossFandoms
Summary: A series of scenerios in which Eomer and Lothiriel meet. Will be updated whenever there is inspiration.
1. Wildest Dream

Author's Note: This takes place in 3015 T.A. when Éomer is 25 and Lothíriel is 17.

* * *

Éomer returned to Aldburg after another skirmish in the Folde with orcs. He greeted his sister with a weary smile. The next morning, he took his sister on a morning ride to watch the sun rise over their beloved hometown.

When they were quite a distance from any person who could possibly eavesdrop, Éomer began, "The reason I brought you out this morning is to tell you that I shall be travelling to Mundburg at the end of this week. I am selling six swift horses to Gondor, thanks to Théodred's help in starting it."

"Does Uncle know?" Éowyn asked cautiously.

"No, and I do not want him to know because of his chief advisor," Éomer responded gravely. "I do not trust Gríma Wormtongue. You see, I worry what Gríma is doing since I am hearing that many of our people have barely enough for themselves after paying the taxes. Théodred and I came up with the plan, and we arranged it so that legally the money earned will be under my name. If Gríma gets wind of this business transaction, he cannot touch the proceeds."

"So, our nation is not faring well, financially." Éowyn noted softly. "Who shall fill in your role while you are gone?"

"Éothain shall act for me. He and the èored shall accompany me to the Mering Stream where the horses currently reside. From there, I shall continue with two other men. I think I shall be away for three weeks or a month."

"I wish I could go," Éowyn said wistfully, gazing at the fields of waving grass. "I love home, but there is so much I could do."

"One day, you shall do great things," Éomer promised, leaning over to kiss his sister's cheek.

At the end of the week, Éomer bade farewell to his sister before riding with his èored towards Mering Stream. The journey was swift and uneventful. By sunset of the fifth day, they reached their destination. Éomer showed the guards the letters from Théodred, gaining the group easy entrance into the vale and the city. Éomer gazed at the majestic city. He admired the architecture, but he found the city lacking in warmth. The white stones were cold, the people mildly interested to indifferent, and the atmosphere far too tight and formal to his liking. The stable master already had quarters prepared for both the men and the horses. Of course, the horses were bedded in the stables while the men were housed in the lodge next to the stables. Éomer, however, was lodged in a house in the next circle. He was loathe to part with his comrades, but he extracted from them a promise to not mingle with the night life of the city.

The next morning, Éomer, the stable master, and a few of the errand riders examined the horses. While the Gondorian riders checked the horses, Éomer explained he often spoke commands in both Westron and Rohirric. When the riders approved of the mounts, the head groom promised to arrange a hearing before the Steward to finalize the transaction.

Once the meeting concluded, he turned to his own steed. While brushing Firefoot, he heard another rider enter the stables. A feminine voice greeted the groom and noted that she would take care of unsaddling her horse. He glanced towards the source of the sound. Awestruck, his gaze remained on her figure much longer than he intended, for she was like no other woman he met. She was tall and fair with hair as black as night and a complexion the color of flaxen wheat. Her lips were a lovely shade of light red, and her cheeks rosy. She held herself with graceful poise, like that of queen. Her movements were fluid like the dance of long grass in the wind. Then she looked towards him. Perhaps it was love at first at sight, but Éomer knew that one day he would make her his own.

* * *

Lothíriel finished unsaddling her horse, hanging the saddlecloth and saddle on a stand next to the stall. She opened the stall door and retrieved a comb and brush. She then cleaned her steed's hooves, ensuring that no stones were lodged in the frog. As she gently prodded her horse to the full water bucket in the stall, she noticed a male figure standing nearby. Silvery grey eyes met warm hazel. She considered his neat appearance, quickly noting the man's high stature, hair like burnished gold, and overall handsome appearance.

"Do you speak Westron?" She asked with a slight smile.

He answered, "Yes, and a smattering of elvish. I probably understand more elvish than what I speak."

Her smile broadened with slight amusement as she replied, "There are several elvish dialects, and so I usually use the term 'elvish' for description purposes rather than to identify a language. What is your name, sir?" She liked the man's forthright manners. It spoke of an honorable character, which was a relief from the decorum of Gondorian lords.

"Éomer, Third Marshal of Rohan, my lady," he responded automatically with a hint of honest pride in his voice.

Lothíriel softly laughed, "I do not know what kind of title 'Marshal' refers to, but I am certainly no lady. I have no proprietary rights and authority, excluding my rights to life, liberty, and the defense of said rights."

"That may be so, but being a lady requires other attributes that some of your 'rightful' ladies may not possess," he responded gravely.

Lothíriel contemplated the man before her. He was certainly no young, foolish rider. Behind his solemn mask, he probably saw and felt many sorrows. She responded slowly, "What you may be, you are certainly no ordinary rider. I have not met your people before, but I doubt many speak Westron. I suspect your people speak freely, but you have learned to choose your words before expressing opinions. When you gave me your name, sir, you spoke with dignity, implying you are highly regarded in your country."

He chuckled slightly, "You have surmised correctly in all but one thing. I doubt the height of regard my king has for me, and I do not listen to what my countrymen think of me. All I desire is the loyalty of my èored and the love of my kin."

A young man approached and whispered something to Lothíriel. She nodded and turned to Éomer, "My uncle has need of me, so I must go now. It was enchanting to meet you, sir." She bestowed a warm smile before departing.

Lothíriel followed the manservant to her uncle's house. She was seventeen, but she often felt much older. She knew why. From an early age, her mother trained her in the duties the Princess of Dol Amroth attended to. Her father also aided her education by teaching her to use the intellects given to her. As for her brothers, they taught her to wield a knife and defend herself as soon as she began blossoming into a woman's body. Some would say that she never had a childhood, but Lothíriel knew she did. While she was young, her families made lessons seem like games until she outgrew them. Even when she did, she pranked and teased her brothers. Noticing that she had come to the steward's house, she drew her thoughts from her past to the present.

Lothíriel immediately sensed a tiredness about her uncle's demeanor. When the servants were dismissed, she asked, "Are you well, Uncle?"

"Is my health obvious?" he asked solemnly with a tint of humor.

She smiled, "No, but I have a tendency to detect such things."

"I have guests from Rohan," he continued. "Two speak only their own language, but the third speaks Westron. I should like you to show them Minas Tirith tomorrow while I arrange a few matters."

Lothíriel quickly realized that her uncle referred to Éomer of Rohan. Making no comment on her earlier happenstance in the stables, she responded, "I shall be pleased to do so, uncle. Is that all you wish of me?" Her uncle nodded and she bade him goodbye. As she left her uncle, she smiled to herself. She rather liked that man of Rohan, so spending time with him would be arouse no displeasure on her part.

The next morning, she showed the men of Rohan highlights of the city. It was rather slow work to explain Minas Tirith's history since Éomer had to translate her words. When the tour of the city concluded, she took them to a reputable inn for a midday refreshment. Afterwards, she led them to several shops so that they could buy gifts for their kin. That took at least two hours since the men of Rohan had to haggle prices with Éomer's help. Once that was concluded, Éomer's companions decided to spend the rest of the afternoon with their horses and each other.

When the group had parted ways at the stables, Éomer turned to Lothíriel, asking with an amused smile, "Do you normally give tours of the city and lead shopping expeditions to foreigners?"

"No," Lothíriel laughed, mentally noting Éomer looked much nicer when he smiled, "but I shall not be making a habit of it." She began walking the seventh circle, her long braid swinging lightly as she walked.

Éomer's tone became more earnest as he asked, no, urged, "Let's get out of the city, ride away from the crowds."

Lothíriel turned. She knew that there would be serious implications if she did so, but she sensed that she could trust Éomer. She answered with a slow grin, "Why not? I daresay my uncle would not mind if I showed you how we raise food to feed our citizens." She perceived the genuine surprise on Éomer's face before he covered his expression with a smile.

They headed towards the stables, saddle and bridled their steeds, and rode out of the town. Of course, it took a while to bypass the crowded streets. Eventually, they reached the country air. Lothíriel guided him through the farmlands to the orchards planted on terraces hued from the mountain. Once she deemed them far enough from curious eyes, she led Éomer through her favorite trails that were hidden by the forest.

"We have to dismount here," Lothíriel remarked after riding in silence. "A bit further is a viewpoint of the city worth seeing, but it is only accessible by foot." She alighted from her mount and whispered something in its ear. She hiked up a barely discernable path, pausing to ensure that Éomer was behind her.

"You know my name, but I do not know yours," Éomer said after a while.

Lothíriel responded, "Does it matter?"

"Yes, for I'd like to be able to tell my sister about you," he answered.

"Lothíriel," she responded. "My name is Lothíriel."

He tested her name on his lips. It was a beautiful name though he did not know what it meant. Then they arrived at the viewpoint. The afternoon sun shone warmly on the white stone, and the city did not look as imposing and cold as he first thought it to be. Lothíriel turned to him, her silver eyes sparkling.

The question burning in his mind for the last day came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Are you elvish?" He immediately turned a shade pink when he realized what he had just asked.

"Elven might be the proper term when referring the description of 'elvish' to a person," she replied with a laugh like tinkling bells and merry brooks. "Both my mother and father have elvish blood in them. Of my family, I am closest in appearance to my ancestors, though I am not sure why."

"My grandmother was of Gondor," he remarked. "I suppose that is where my height comes from."

"Truly? What was her name?"

"Morwen, formerly of Belfalas, but my people added 'Steelsheen' to her name."

Lothíriel leaned against a tree, recalling her history lessons. Then she remembered what she wanted to recall. She said with a slow smile, which Éomer was coming to adore, "Morwen Steelsheen was distantly related to my family. You might say that we are very distant cousins."

"Then would it be awkward if I were to kiss you?" he blurted.

She answered, "I did say that we are _very distant_ cousins, so there is no awkwardness in that, but I have only met you yesterday." Before she could continue, a pair of lips found her own. She was initially shocked, of course, but her body responded before her mind did. He drew her closer with one hand resting on the small of her back and the other cradling her face. His motions were oh so gentle and almost timid.

Suddenly, he drew away, his face a lovely shade of heightened color. He began muttering profuse apologies and explanations while raking his fingers through his hair. Lothíriel tried to alleviate his slightly agitated state with gentle words, but he would not stop talking. So, Lothíriel resorted to the same method he used on her earlier. She pulled him towards her and kissed him.

Lothíriel did not know how long the stood there. When she reflected on that kiss, she remembered warm, tingling sensations of passion. The most inappropriate thing he did was unbraiding her hair to run his fingers through her long tresses. He held her close and made Lothíriel feel emotions she never knew that existed. She never felt any animalistic desire for him, which most called lust, only something truer and purer. Some would have called it love, but she did not know what.

* * *

On the following day, Éomer spent the morning finalizing the sale of the horses with Denethor. With that business concluded, he spoke with his men and agreed to depart the next day. Naturally, he was loth to depart so soon, but he did not dare to tell his fellow riders. After a midday meal with his countrymen, he headed towards the Citadel library, for he heard that the library was something worth visiting.

He found Lothíriel within. She looked up from her book and beckoned him to follow her. She showed him the various scrolls and books before concluding the mini-tour at a deserted corner where she kissed him lightly on the lips. He responded with a deeper one.

When they separated for breath, Éomer noted the light shining in Lothíriel's eyes. He whispered, "I must return home tomorrow morning, but I cannot leave without expressing my deepest feelings for you." He could not say "love" because he knew not if what he felt for the lady would be called love.

"Then say that you shall remember me," she breathed.

"How would I forget?" he responded, losing himself in her beautiful face. "Wherever I go, memories of you shall follow me. Even in my wildest dreams, I shall remember you."

He kissed her tenderly once more before holding her in his arms. He memorized her scent of roses and lavender. Eventually, he had to go. She gave him the necklace she wore, and he gave her the only thing he kept with him at all times. His father's ring. They never thought the exchange as a promise, but more as a way to remember each other. If they had promised themselves to each other, it was entirely mutual.

* * *

And later, much later, in their lives when they shared their story with children, Éomer would tease Lothíriel how he could have been arrested for harassing a young woman of status and tender age, and she would merely kiss him and say that it didn't matter in the end. Then Éomer would say that his wildest dreams became a reality, and Lothíriel would feign ignorance and tease him. But as Lothíriel always said, "What matters is that we met; fell in love despite being of different ages, rank, and countries; and married. And that is wilder than the wildest of dreams."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__ And if you haven't noticed, this is based on some lyrics from "Wildest Dreams" by Taylor Swift with a reference to another Taylor Swift song._


	2. Reflected

Éomer gazed at himself in the mirror. There were very few times he cared for his appearance. But there are occasions a good look in the mirror was necessary. And today was one of those times. He knew that he was current in a far more "refined" society than what he was accustomed. And as king of Rohan, he must look the part to impress the Gondorians (ladies included, unfortunately, not that he cared anyway) and make his sister proud. He knew very well that Gondorian nobility looked down on Rohirric customs for ridiculous reasons, but he could not intentionally disgust them while in Gondor, thus ruining relations between the two countries.

"You look very handsome, sire," a lilting voice remarked. "If that is what you are worried about."

Éomer whirled around, fearing that some upstart, scheming lady has come into his room. He saw nobody in the room.

"Look in the mirror," the voice said again.

Éomer did so. A lady stood behind him with hair blacker than the night and eyes twinkling like the stars. She smiled almost smugly as she remarked, "I know, it is not every day you meet a lady in a mirror. And it is not every day that I reveal myself so completely."

"How?" he managed to ask without stuttering out of disbelief. "Are you trapped?"

"You could say it is magic, but magic cannot explain everything," she responded lightly. "No, I am not trapped. I can choose to project myself in any reflecting object in the past, present, or future. I prefer not to travel to the near future, but I have explored the far future and the past. Why, I've learned far more from these excursions than what my governess taught me."

"Then are you happy?"

"Happy as in I enjoy what I do? Yes, but would I be happy if I stayed in the world of mirrors? Maybe for a little while, but I doubt I would enjoy it forever."

There was so much more he wished to ask, but time was running short. He sighed, "Will I see you again? If you've been into the far future, I should like to know what the people of those times think of governing a nation."

At this, her face grew thoughtful. She responded quietly, "If I did, I do not know how much you will understand. It took me a long time to comprehend it since I had to learn the language!" The last part, she said with a merry laugh. She continued, "We shall meet again, but the question is whether or not you shall know." The mysterious lady then disappeared from his sight.

Éomer shook his head, hardly believing what he just witnessed or understanding the lady's parting words. He turned to his chest, which lay at the foot of the bed, and removed Guthwine. He withdrew the sword from its scabbard, losing himself in the gleam of the blade and remembering that strange light in the mirror lady's eyes. He strapped his sword to his side since he thought it appropriate to wear for his blood-brother's coronation.


	3. Enchanted

She did not know how long she worked with the wounded men. Perhaps she was tired, but she did not notice. It was a hard battle she fought to encourage men to fight for their lives from the grasp of Death. Eventually, the Warden ordered her to rest, and so she did in her own manner. She sat on a bench, sketching in the flickering light of a lantern. Sketching had always been a priority in her training as a healer, for she learned to recognize plants by drawing them to the finest detail. Though her hand was busy, her mind was at peace, wandering the lands of absent thought.

Someone gently tapped her shoulder, startling her out of her reverie. A tall man stood before her with his helmet in his hand. He asked in accented Westron, "Do you know where I might find some food?"

She automatically responded, "Of course, but if you wait here, I shall bring you some." She rose and set off to the kitchen. The fire was already banked, but she knew that a live coal lay buried beneath the ashes. Rather than bothering to start the fire again, she found some bread and cheese. She wished they had fruit, but all of that was gone. When she returned, the man was looking at her sketch. She noted his broad shoulders, made broader by his armor, and his tangled, dirty hair.

"Here is your food, sir," she said, handing him the plate. "I am afraid that I could not find very much other than this."

"Tis no matter," he replied between slow bites. He fell silent before remarking, "What were you drawing? I could not make it out."

She studied her work for the first time as she was not really paying attention to what she was doing when she started. Her sketch appeared to be like the sea crashing over rocks. The waves themselves were shaped such a strange manner that she supposed they could be anything. As for the rocks, she could only tell that they were firm. Finally, she responded, "It is the sea crashing into rocks. You could say that we are like the rocks, firm in the midst of this war. Or you could say that we are like the sea, unafraid to assail the firmest of enemies."

"Or we must be both," he commented solemnly. His brown eyes softened, unless it was a trick of the lamp light.

Seeing that he was quite finished with his meal, she rose. He handed her the dish. After hesitating to depart, she finally offered him the drawing, saying, "Please take this, sir. It is a small gift for what you and your countrymen have done as many others have and shall tell you. Perhaps it shall remind you to be both the sea and the rock."

He smiled slightly, making his solemn face appear younger. He rose and accepted the drawing, promising, "And so it shall, lady. In such times and all times, one must be like the rock and sea. I thank you for your kindness and gift."

She inclined her head, "I am not lady, only a younger healer, sir. I know not what you might be, but I deem you to be of good standing since I've met few of your people who speak Westron. I must bid you goodnight, but I hope we shall meet in better times." She gave him one small smile before turning to the kitchen.

It was the coronation ball of King Elessar of Gondor. Lothíriel stood near her father, forcing laughter and faking smiles with the lesser lords. She ensured that her manners were civil, but cold. One sharp look from her silver eyes killed any hope an aspiring suitor held. She glanced towards her father, who spoke with some lord of Gondor. Then she turned her attention towards the King of Rohan. He stood across the room, and he seemed a little bit out of place. For one thing, his clothing, though simple, was elegant compared to the ostentatiousness of the Gondorians. And for another, he seemed a bit bored by the festivities, which were probably much more sedate than he was used to.

The lord whom she was supposed to talking to suddenly stopped midsentence, asking, "Is everything alright, my lady?"

Lothíriel saw through his wall of insincerity, and answered politely, "Everything is alright, but I do believe Lord Galdor by the wine casks is motioning for you."

Lord Whateverhisnamewas immediately bowered and excused himself. Lothíriel sighed and glanced again towards the Rohirric king. Their gazes met, and recognition flashed in his deep blue eyes. Lothíriel watched his silhouette make his way towards her.

Eventually, he stood before her, bowed, and asked, "Have we met, lady?"

"It is in better times that meet again, sire," she responded as she curtsied. "Have found out you can be both the sea and the rock?"

Puzzlement clouded his brow, but then his bright smile cleared the confusion. "Ah, yes, indeed I have. And have you drawn any new analogies for me to test? Or may I give you one to try out?"

They bantered lightly for the next half-hour. Lothíriel no longer pretended her laughter. It came as easily as smiling.

As the conversation ended, he said, "You know what? I still do not know your name, and I do not think I've told you mine."

"My father, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, has spoken of me, I'm sure. But I know you to be Éomer, King of Rohan."

A few moments later, he hesitantly guessed, "Are you Lothíriel?"

Lothíriel nodded, "Indeed." She added wistfully, "I wish this night wouldn't end too soon. It's been enchanting to meet you."

"Mayhap I am enchanted by you," he whispered, causing a blush to rise on Lothíriel's cheek.

They stood there in silence, enjoying each other's company and wondering if the other had a lover. Eventually, the spell was broken, and they both separated. As they both prepared for bed in their individual room, they thought of the night. Of how everything didn't seem real until they saw each other. Of the first time they met. Of what can be.


	4. Dear Heart

As soon as he saw his uncle and sister lying in the battlefield, all the pent-up emotions – rage, sorrow, hopelessness – exploded from him. He called all the ferocity out of his men, and they fought with strength magnified tenfold. In his blind fury, he cared nothing of his safety or that of his men's. All he saw was red death.

As quickly as his rage set in, everything around him stilled. A woman dressed in healer's garb stood before him. Before he could say a word, she placed her hand over his heart and gazed into his eyes. Then a heartbeat later, she whispered, "Peace, dear heart, all will be well."

He lifted his eyes and beheld a white tree with seven stars above it waving in the wind, leading black sails. With a shout of joy, he fought on with a smile.

* * *

Laughter and music floated from the Great Hall and the city below. After all, it was only right that Minas Tirith should celebrate the crowning of the long awaited king. As for herself, she stood in the garden, staring into the night sky. True, she was supposed to be in the Great Hall, but no one would miss her.

After a few moments silence, the person beside her murmured in a voice only males have, "All is well, dear heart."

Smiling faintly, she turned her head. Her gaze met with that of the Rohirric king. "Is it?" She asked. "And why are you here?"

In response, he took her hand and pressed it against his beating heart. "Because of you. In my darkest moment, you came to me and made all things well. Will you let me do the same to you?"

He gazed into her eyes, giving her permission to search his mind and heart for any falsities. But she already knew that he only spoke truth and love. She took his other hand, and held it to her heart. "You already have," she said. And their hearts beat to the same rhythm.


End file.
